The Two Crowns
by Almyra
Summary: Bookverse. Discouraged and on the verge of defeat, Prince Caspian finds one of his dearest wishes has been granted and the savior of Narnia has returned.
1. Chapter 1: Hope Reborn

**Disclaimer: **I don't own even a few square centimeters of Narnia, and I certainly am not being paid for this. Any bits of dialog you recognize come from Prince Caspian by C. S. Lewis and are property of his estate - or whoever holds those purse/copyright strings.

**AN:** I have had the first three chapters of this story languishing on my jump drive for many, many months, certainly long before that bit of cinema calling itself an adaption of the book debuted on the big screen. I was pretty disappointed by the way certain characters were twisted and deformed nearly beyond recognition, and while Adamson's version does provide for much angst, I think there is plenty to mine from between the sentences of Lewis's actual work. Hence the reason this story is strictly bookverse and includes several favorite lines I sorely missed in the film. I hope you enjoy!

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**Chapter One: Hope Reborn**

"Are you alright, Ed?"

"I, I think so. I've got that brute Nikabrik, but he's still alive."

"Weights and waterbottles! It's me you're sitting on! You're like a young elephant! Get off!"

"I'm sorry, D.L.F. There, is that better?"

"Ow! No! You're putting your boot in my mouth! Go away!"

"Is King Caspian anywhere?"

"I'm here," I answered faintly, "Something bit me."

When the match flared, I saw the newcomer's face. Dirty, pale, and fatigued, a boy looked back at me who might have been a little younger than I. He blundered about for the candle for a few minutes, found it at last, and lit it. The resulting light illuminated the remainder of our allies, and we all stood for a moment, blinking stupidly at one another as if we'd just woken from sleep, not fought for our very lives.

Trumpkin had returned, and with him, next to the dark haired boy, stood another who might have been roughly my own age. They were all clothed in ancient chain mail of the finest make, and weariness marked their sweaty faces.

The older boy drew a deep breath and spoke. "We don't seem to have any enemies left. There's the hag, dead." He averted his gaze quickly, looking rather ill. "And Nikabrik, dead too. And I suppose this thing is a Wer-Wolf. It's so long since I've seen one. Wolf's head and a man's body. That means he was just turning from man into wolf when he was killed."

He sounded curiously as though he were reciting, or remembering aloud something he'd forgotten. Then he turned straight to me, and even in the candlelight, I felt the weight of his gaze. "And you, I suppose, are King Caspian?"

"Yes," I responded, fiercely pushing down the wild anticipation mixed with pure confusion still rising within me – I tried to tell myself I'd had too many illusions dashed already. Honesty was the best course to pursue; get the inevitable over with quickly. What was one more hope crushed? "But I've no idea who you are."

"It's the High King, King Peter," Trumpkin said with just a touch of pride, and suddenly, my bitten, throbbing arm was the furthest thing from my mind.

I could not find my voice.

I had spent my formative years with tales and legends of Narnia's greatest kings and queens being whispered in my ears. I had grown into youth wanting deeply to know them and wishing desperately I could spend even just a few hours with them and the marvelous Talking Animals and Magical Creatures of their kingdom. They'd had such splendid adventures, and oh, how I had longed to take part in them, to escape from the dull grey morass that was, so I thought, the extent of my childish life. With the passion and zeal of a true believer, I had soaked up every story and scrap of legend first Nurse and then Doctor Cornelius possessed.

The possibility that Aslan would see fit to send us help in the form of the Four Sovereigns of the Golden Age had seen me through these last disastrous hours of battle and defeat and discouragement. Indeed, even though the aid we so desperately needed might possibly come in another form, I secretly hoped he would choose his greatest champions; that is, if he could not come himself. Perhaps, one very dark corner of my mind whispered, even if he _could_ come himself...

And so from the instant I winded the Horn, I had waited for this moment with every ounce of patience and discipline I possessed. I had been busily preparing courtly speeches in my mind, noble things I would say to the High King and his brother and sisters when they rode out of the mist on great destriers, clad in shining armor and wearing glorious crowns. Gratefully, I would sink to my knees and offer the Magnificent my sword, and he would ride out and command, win the battle, and save the day.

Now, that moment had arrived, and far, far differently than I had imagined. To my shame, I felt a wave of acute disappointment. Now reality was staring me in the face, I realized I really didn't know what I had expected, but I knew for certain it wasn't this schoolboy before me.

Was this _really_ the High King? High King over Narnia; High King over _me_? The mighty warrior who had ruled honorably and well, keeping Narnia safe from untold dangers, sacrificing his body for her welfare, his happiness for her bounty, his life for hers? _High King Peter?_

In spite of my initial disenchantment, a burgeoning awe was beginning to blossom beneath my breastbone and speedily engulf the disbelief. After all, the portion of me unfazed by wishful imaginings whispered, he had been that mere schoolboy when he had killed Maugrim the wolf and won his kingdom at Beruna.

Unbelievable. Aslan had really sent him. He had really come.

The silence finally captured my attention, and I flushed uncomfortably. The other boy – _King Edmund the Just, _my mind supplied with another jolt of amazement – was watching me perceptively, and I tried to ignore his assessing gaze. Were my thoughts reflected on my face for all to see? I blushed harder and was thankful for the relative gloom in the chamber.

"Your Majesty is very welcome," I said, instinctively falling back on the good manners trained into me since birth and then immediately cursing my inability to say anything fairer.

High King Peter – _the_ _High King of Narnia!_ – smiled. At _me_. "And so is _your_ Majesty. I haven't come to take your place, you know, but to put you into it."

"Your majesty," interposed Trufflehunter, who had come to stand at the High King's elbow. I could hear the tremor in the badger's voice; he sounded as though he could not wait any longer. Faithful beast, he had never doubted – he deserved no censure for putting himself forward. The boy turned, and then he leaned forward and embraced Trufflehunter, kissing the beast on his head. It was a formal, yet completely sincere gesture of affection, the greeting and blessing of a grateful king to his loyal subject, and chills ran up and down my spine.

_It's the High King, King Peter…_

My knees nearly went weak as the full import hit me at last. The High King Peter was here! Standing _here_! Right in front of me!

So he certainly seemed to be.


	2. Chapter 2: A Glimpse Past

**AN:** Coping with an upcoming move, so while I have most of this already written and ready to post, please bear with me through these next few weeks! Enjoy!

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"_You're bleeding," said Peter._  
_"Yes, I'm bitten," said Caspian. "It was that–that wolf thing."  
Cleaning and bandaging the wound took a long time...  
_+ _Sorcery and Sudden Vengeance, Prince Caspian_ by C.S. Lewis

**Chapter Two: A Glimpse Past**

"A pity Lu isn't here. The cordial would have this healed in a trice."

It was King Edmund who spoke thusly, sitting on a stool beside me to my right as first Doctor Cornelius and then the High King carefully examined the deep gouges scoring my right forearm. I was sweating, trying with all my might to keep from making any sound, although the Wer-Wolf bite hurt about as badly as any scrape or wound I'd received in my short life.

Nonetheless, a frisson of giddy amazement shivered down my spine at hearing the Queen Lucy and her marvelous, magical Christmas gift referenced so casually and familiarly. Though it was still a struggle to reconcile the reality of the High King and his brother with the pictures I had always carried in my imagination, such statements caused me to realize anew I was in the presence of _legends_. Oh, if only Nurse was here with me now!

"It is indeed a pity," King Peter said, his blue eyes narrowed, "but it can't be helped – we'll have to do this the old-fashioned way." And then he glanced up at me and smiled tightly. "Unfortunately, your majesty. I'm sorry."

Doctor Cornelius shrugged apologetically to me and to the ancient boy-king and added his own conclusion. "Regrettably, my skill is mostly confined to the academy, but several of your wounds, King Caspian, look as though they will have to be stitched. After being thoroughly cleaned, of course."

"It's all right, your highness; Doctor," I said cautiously, attempting to speak normally, belying the sudden cramp in my stomach at their words.

"Does it pain you much?" came King Edmund's voice, and I looked over to find him watching me carefully, his deep brown eyes appearing almost black, glinting in the dim candlelight. All through our initial meeting and the exchange that followed, he had said little, preferring instead to watch and listen. I remembered the stories saying he was quieter than his brother and much more contemplative, and thus far, the tales I had been told certainly appeared to be true. They hadn't mentioned, however, just how unnerving his attentive silence really was.

I found my features relaxing from an anguished grimace, and almost made the face again in chagrin. "Not…terribly," I responded, trying on a tentative smile, and he smiled back, a kind expression, and folded his arms across his chest.

"He's almost as good a liar as you are, Peter," he said, still looking at me, but directing his comment to the High King, who crooked an eyebrow at his brother.

"Thank you ever so," the older boy responded dryly, "I do consider that a compliment."

King Edmund snorted, but it was an affectionate sound. "You would," was all he said, a smirk pulling at the side of his mouth.

King Peter rolled his eyes good-naturedly at his brother and then turned to Trufflehunter, who was hovering beside his elbow, looking up at him with patient adoration. "Worthy badger, would it be possible to seek a healer and ask him to come and bring with him the necessary items to treat a wound of this nature?"

Trufflehunter bobbed his head in a bow. "Of course, your majesty," he said, "Please excuse me."

"Thank you, cousin," King Peter answered, shifting his hold and gently releasing my arm. I very nearly squeaked at the sudden spikes of agony the slight motion precipitated.

Trumpkin was standing, leaning against the wall with his burly arms crossed, and as Trufflehunter left, he snorted. "Rafters and rutabagas, bandages are in plentiful supply around here – that I can assure you, majesty. Certainly use enough of 'em."

A pang went through me at this, although I knew Trumpkin meant nothing against me. What sort of king was I, that my followers were led repeatedly into failed attempts at battle? Well, no king at all yet, whispered that cutting little voice I'd been hearing more and more from of late.

In truth, I was nothing more than a boy, and an ill-prepared, unschooled simpleton at that, with all the tactical knowledge and savvy of a turnip. Doctor Cornelius had done his best, and while the study of war and its waging had been among my favorite subjects, the reality was entirely different than the printed page. Suffice it to say, thus far I had not adapted well to the change.

What must the High King and his brother think of me? I stared at the tips of my boots and wished I were invisible.

"King Caspian," King Peter said after a long moment of silence. "If you feel as though you are able, would you give us a general idea of our position here? It will help us," his gesture encompassed his brother and himself, "understand a bit better what we're up against."

I bit my lip and hesitated, inhaling the coppery tang of my blood, the damp mustiness of the chamber, the sweat of Man and Dwarf. Perhaps the High King and King Edmund were once more only youths, but they _were_ here and by Aslan's grace. Would I spurn the Great Lion's gift for the sake of my pride?

"I suppose I had better begin at the beginning," I said, trying to ignore the steady throb of pain through my arm. "You see, my Uncle Miraz–"

"It's all right, your majesty," interrupted Trumpkin, "I've told them that story, up 'til now."

Both kings nodded, and I was glad I wouldn't have to recount the entire affair; at least, not at the present moment.

"You might have noticed this already," I began again, somewhat uncertainly, "but my uncle has us nearly surrounded. We're by no means strong enough to meet him in pitched battle. We…" I paused, shame and discouragement rearing their ugly heads once more. "We had a rather bad time of things yesterday morning, and…it's not the first time we've lost so badly."

King Peter nodded, but instead of mockery or scorn, he wore a thoughtful expression.

"We came in just at the point where you were describing his ambush," King Edmund put in, "Could you say how many troops were involved? Though actually, before we speak of that specifically, perhaps you might first describe how his army is organized?"

Wrinkling my nose in concentration, I gathered the pertinent facts from the corners of my weary mind and, aided by occasional comments from Trumpkin and Doctor Cornelius, laid them before my ancient allies. They listened carefully and asked further questions – questions that by all appearances should not have issued from such youthful mouths. The High King led and directed the lines of conversation, but as we continued, I noticed King Edmund served as our voice of reason, shaping ideas with a suggestion here and a query there. Had things not been so serious and had I been allowed the luxury of simply observing, I would have found the whole exchange completely fascinating.

And then Trufflehunter reentered the chamber with our chief healer, the dwarf named Stempin, and I was forced to turn my attention to other equally painful matters.

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Whoever said the cure is sometimes worse than the disease was right.

Stempin scoffed at my tentative question regarding possible contamination and replied tersely that being bitten did not mean transformation, and I was quite safe as a Son of Adam for as many years as Aslan granted to me, may the Great Lion have mercy. Apparently, however, while Dr. Cornelius was wrong about my needing stitches, this reassurance did not preclude a very thorough and agonizing sanitation of the wounds. I was trembling and sweating even more profusely by the time the good dwarf brought out the salve and lengths of bandaging, which he used to bind the wounds tightly.

The High King and his brother had withdrawn with Doctor Cornelius and Trumpkin in order to give me a bit of privacy, and I was just as thankful for such a gesture of understanding as I was for Trufflehunter staying faithfully by my side with his paw on my knee.

When Stempin was finally finished, he gathered his things and took his leave, and King Edmund came back to me. "Better?" he asked, giving me a hand up.

I flexed and wiggled my fingers, feeling the dull throb burn across my forearm. "Better," I replied. "Though I suppose it will be rather painful for some time."

"Yes, regrettably," he said, "There's nothing worse than a Wer-Wolf bite to keep one up at night. Takes them forever to heal."

I blinked. "You know?" I asked, "I mean, have you been bitten, too?"

King Edmund smiled. "Not me," he said, inclining his head slightly in the direction of his brother. "Him. Nasty business, but he came through all right."

I swallowed the hundreds of comments and questions swarming the gates of my mouth – chief of which was the oft-repeated demand I'd made of Nurse in those wonderful moments during my childhood: _"Tell me the story!"_ – and nodded as nonchalantly as I could manage. "I'm glad."

"So am I," he answered seriously, his gaze moving in the direction of his earlier gesture and stopping on the High King, who was still bent in conversation with Trumpkin and Doctor Cornelius. Silence fell between us for a moment, and we both watched as King Peter, his arms folded across his chest, laughed suddenly at something Trumpkin said, tossing his head back and exposing white teeth in a generous grin, a dimple winking into sight on either cheek.

King Edmund exhaled and repeated softly, barely audible, "So am I."

"Now," Trumpkin interjected decisively, after apparently noticing at last that Stempin had gone and my forearm was newly wrapped with white bandaging. He rubbed his callused palms together in anticipation. "Before everything else we want some breakfast."


End file.
